Life Is A Foreign Language

by Rayne E. Golay

  “No. Why should I? We all need somebody to talk to.” Smiling, he glanced at her. “You should know, you’re the psychologist.”

  “I’m relieved, Michael. I thought you’d want to keep quiet about us.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it. “Absolutely not. We may not be ready to make an announcement to the world, but I’m not ashamed about us. We have nothing to hide.”

  “Do you have somebody you talk to about such things?” she asked.

  “I talk to Oren Jones. I’ve mentioned him.”

  “The Reverend?” When she’d told Michael about her childhood he had promised to contact Oren, arrange for Nina to meet him. He must have forgotten, she thought, but didn’t want to bring it up right now.

  “Yes. He’s a great guy.”

  “Did you tell him about us?”

  “Yes, sweetheart.”

  “What did he say?”

  Michael grinned. “Oh, no, you go first; what did Sophie say?”

  Heat started in her chest and crept up her neck when she thought of the more intimate details of her conversation with Sophie. Nina would tell him, but not right now. “She said a lot of things. Basically she wished us luck.”

  “That’s what Oren said. He talked about the right to happiness. He said if the Supreme Being had given us the gift of meeting and coming to love each other, who are we to question the gift.”

  She glanced at well-tended lawns, stately residences and the sparkle of a waterway.

  “Is your house by a canal?” she asked. The city was a network of canals; the waterfront lots were choice properties, a boater’s dream.

  “Yes, but it doesn’t have access to the Gulf of Mexico.”

  “I see. Is that why you moor your yacht in Everglade City?”

  “Yes.” He took her hand. “Will you be bothered by the smell of cigarettes in my house?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll manage.” She detested the smell of stale cigarette smoke, but this was his home, so she kept quiet.

  Michael turned left into a driveway in front of a house that stretched over three lots on a corner. The house was elegantly done in off-white stucco with blinding white doors and window frames.

  The sun was a disc of molten gold, high in the sky, casting almost no shadows.

  As she stepped from the car, she gasped from surprise and delight; there on the front lawn a tall jacaranda raised its trunk to the sky, the branches tumbling in a vast cloud of blue bell shaped blossoms. The color is the exact same as Michael’s eyes.

  “Your tree is fabulous.”

  He took her hand, steering her across the lawn.

  “Wow!” The exclamation escaped her lips at the sight of flowers everywhere.

  “Before we go inside, I’d like to show you the garden. Is that all right?”

  “Oh yes, I’d love to see it.” Here in Florida, gardens as a rule were lush and beautiful, with well-tended lawns and trimmed shrubs. Her garden was beautiful in its simplicity, the accent on the luxuriant lawn. But Michael’s outdid anything she’d seen. It was … magnificent. A splendor that stirred, stimulated, and titillated all her senses.

  Nina’s eyes and nose met a profusion of colors, shapes and perfumes, a study in balance and harmony.

  A lush, restful oasis, the landscaping was planned so as to bring harmony in the way the plants matched and blended together, sported shades and forms at interplay.

  Roses grew in bushed form and as trimmed trees. Some climbed on trellises. One bed held only peace roses, their large blossoms butter yellow on which Nature had wiped Her paint brushes of red and hot pink.

  “This is truly lovely,” she said. “How do you find the time to take care of all this?”

  Smiling, he glanced at her. “It’s a labor of love. It relieves me after a tough day at the clinic. For heavier work, I have a landscaping service.”

  With an arm around her shoulders, holding her close, he led her past the lanai to the bottom of the garden, skirting a variety of citrus trees, pregnant with fruit, and an avocado tree called “Crocodile Pear” by the local Native Americans. The heady perfume of gardenia and honeysuckle floated on the air.

  “Gardening is my way of being in touch with my Higher Power. I do a little nearly every evening after I’m through at the clinic. Gives me a break from illness and misery. It’s healthy, and I love it.”

  Nina was getting used to his arm around her shoulders, warm where his hand cupped it. At first she didn’t quite know how to walk, so close in tandem, but she was learning to match her step to his. “Sounds like passion to me.”

  “Gardening?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s my healthy hobby.” He took a few paces and pointed. His voice was intense, almost tremulous when he said, “This is my passion!”

  Her eyes followed his pointing finger. For several moments she stood, fascinated.

  Before her was a massive spread of roses, the like of which she had never seen before. She stepped closer, and his hand on her shoulder fell away.

  The stems were tall, sturdy, with hardly any thorns, the sparse leaves the shade of lime. But it was the flowers that captivated her. Their color was a dark red—no, it was more purple or burgundy, she couldn’t quite say which. Perhaps oxblood red would best describe it. The petals were thick and velvety, the efflorescence so abundant it almost totally obscured the leaves.

  Nina stood mesmerized. She wanted to tell him how moved she was, how beautiful she found this, but words were so paltry. Turning to him, she slipped her hand in his. “Oh Michael!”

  He twined his fingers in hers. “Seems like I worked forever to grow this rose.”

  The blossoms gave off a scent that was almost an invasion, aggressive, tantalizing, pungent, mysterious. It was at once spicy, sensual, attractive, and disturbing.

  “It took me fifteen years of trial and error—mainly error—until I was satisfied I’d developed a rose that was new and exceptional.” He took a deep breath. His voice was thick, lower than usual, a giveaway of the emotional investment this represented to him.

  The beauty of the rose and Michael’s intensity made her want to hug him. Then she thought better of it, fearing she’d intrude or he’d misunderstand.

  “I’m speechless. That may be the best tribute I can pay.”

  He squeezed her hand. “I knew you’d like this.”

  “Like isn’t the word I’d use. I’m in awe.” She took a step closer to him. “The perfume is special. What is it?”

  “Many things. There’s some gardenia, honeysuckle, verbena and geranium. Then cloves and the very basic perfume of rose. And other stuff.”

  The timbre of his voice spoke of the pride and deep passion at his accomplishment.

  How rewarding this must be to him, she thought, more than a little pleased that she’d seen this. It added yet another dimension to Michael. He’s full of surprises.

  “During the years it took me to develop this rose, the result was disappointing many times. Either there was something wrong with the color or the petals weren’t quite right. At one point the plant itself turned out all prickly with thorns, hardly any leaves. The perfume was almost imperceptible. It took me five years just to obtain the flower with this rich deep red color and the dark center.”

  There was more to this, she guessed. “Then what happened?”

  He laughed quietly. “You sound like a kid; tell me a story.”

  “Yes, tell me the story. I’d love to know.”

  He faced her, hand gripping hers, his shoulders hunched and rigid, so different from the usual relaxed way he carried himself. “Okay. One day, two years ago, there it was.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.” His chest heaved from an intake of air. “It was all there, everything I’d fantasized about, exactly as I
used to see it in my mind.”

  “How did you feel? Weren’t you terribly proud to achieve all this?” Her hand made an arch to encompass the spread of roses.

  “Proud? No, not really. But I was ecstatic, no doubt about it. The most wonderful high you can imagine—the natural high that comes from creativity.” He was silent for a minute or two. “I’d like to think it’s comparable to your writing.”

  She nodded her understanding.

  “What is this rose? What do you call it, I mean?”

  “It doesn’t have a name yet. I’ve some ideas, but I haven’t decided. I’ve entered ‘Creation’ in The Rose Festival.”

  “The Rose Festival? What’s that?”

  “It’s a competition held every four years here in town. In this contest, the rarest, the most exotic rose will be the winner.” He pronounced the words with a sigh. “I have great hopes for my rose.” And then he was quiet so long she thought there was nothing more he wanted to say. They stood together, his hand a little moist as it still held hers.

  She saw him glance at her, the barest hint of a smile touching his lips. Their eyes met, and she felt faint from the way he looked at her. Then his eyes moved down to her mouth, and she could almost feel his lips. Longing welled up in her, she wanted him to kiss her and hold her.

  His voice reclaimed her attention. “So far, the name’s been a problem. I haven’t come across one that adequately describes its characteristics. I had a few ideas, but nothing really satisfied me.” He shook his head. “I’m still searching.”

  She wished he’d say more. Not wanting to intrude, she didn’t ask.

  “Would you like to come with me to the Festival?” he asked, cupping her shoulders in his hands, that searching look in his eyes. Ah, so that’s what his look meant.

  “Michael, that’s such an honor. I don’t know anything about a Rose Festival. I’m afraid I’d be in the way.” In fact she was dying to go. But she had to make sure he meant what he said.

  “You wouldn’t be in the way. I’d be proud to have you with me.”

  “Then I accept with joy.”

  “Great!” He grinned, that wonderful boyish smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his white teeth sparkle.

  “Tell me about the Festival so I can picture it.”

  “All the roses entered in the contest have already been planted at the Midpoint Country Club. Every day until the event I go over there to make sure all is well, that the plants are thriving. Sometimes a jury member goes by for a sneak preview, so I have to make sure my roses look their best at all times.

  “On the day of the competition I’ll take you to look at the other entries, and we’ll talk to some of the growers. They’re nice people, most of them.” He added that his three sons and their wives would be present at the Festival. “You’ll also meet some of my colleagues, other friends. The official part gets longwinded, but the dinner is usually fun. And we’ll get to dance.”

  “Ah, so I do get to dance with you. Remember, you promised to take me dancing?”

  “I haven’t forgotten. I’ll take you dancing often once this Festival is over. Now let me see, what else can I tell you?” He was lost in thought. “Yes. Around three in the afternoon the winners will be announced.”

  “Winners? How many are there?”

  “There are several categories. There’s ‘Best Color,’ ‘Best Scent,’ ‘Best Foliage.’ One major category is ‘Best Rose in Show.’ Then, finally, there’s the selection of the ‘Rose of Roses.’ This is the finest distinction a grower can hope to achieve.”

  “And you hope to win ‘Rose of Roses’?”

  “Evidently! I always expect the best. The power of positive thinking, and all that.”

  Great attitude.

  “I’m so pleased you’ll accompany me. I’m usually one of the few contestants without a partner.”

  Was it sadness she heard in his voice? Had he, too, heard the echo of loneliness?

  While Michael talked, they’d been wandering toward the front entrance of his house. He held the door, and she preceded him inside.

  Nina’s first impression was scented air, light colors and a foyer with a high ceiling.

  Chapter 22

  Michael took Nina’s face between his hands, moving so close she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

  “I’m delighted to share the Rose Festival with you,” she said. “The way you talked about it made it come alive for me. I’m really looking forward to it.”

  He nodded. “So am I.” His voice was a little hoarse, eyes glistening. “I love you.” Like a pledge.

  Nina’s heart beat an agitated rhythm. The words were so lovely to hear. She wanted to reciprocate, but couldn’t. She knew she loved him, but she also knew she was a prisoner of the past—insecurity and fear gripped her like a steel fist, robbing her of the freedom to speak the words she wanted to say, that she wanted him to hear.

  This was her opportunity; with Michael she had a chance for love and companionship. She wished she had the courage to dare to trust, to allow herself to love, to be loved in return. But there was no going forward yet, nothing good would come of this unless she first cleaned her own house by dealing with the demons that poisoned her life.

  If she wanted to know freedom, love, happiness—and she certainly did—she must be open with Michael, tell him the way it was with her. She had to risk being honest, let the pieces fall, see what would happen. There were no guarantees, but by keeping her secrets she would forfeit any chance of leaving the past behind, of taking an option on life and love.

  Michael still held her face between his hands. In the dim light of the foyer his eyes were almost black, questioning.

  Nina placed her hands on top of his, turning her face to kiss the palms of his hands, first one, then the other. “Could we sit down?”

  “Of course. Stupid of me.” He led her by the hand to his study with the walls covered from floor to ceiling in books. She was vaguely aware of a wide-screen TV, white carpet, bouncy under her step. She sank into a high-backed voluptuous sofa, its milk-chocolate suede soft and warm. Her hand trembled as she accepted the drink he offered.

  Nina plunged right in. “Michael, there’s something I must tell you. I’m a bundle of nerves, and you need to know why.”

  He sat in the easy chair at an angle to the couch facing her, his brow furrowed. He took her hand. “You sound so serious. Tell me. I’m listening.”

  With a gentle movement she withdrew her hand, placing it on top of the other in her lap. She sat very straight, eyes fixed at a point over his head. “My timing is terrible, but if I don’t tell you now I won’t have the courage later. It’s difficult to talk about.” Her voice rasped in her throat. She took a deep breath, held it before breathing out.

  “Nina, you don’t need to be uncomfortable.”

  She gave him a quick glance before her eyes returned to stare beyond him. “I haven’t slept with a man in a long time.” Her sigh was tremulous, like a sob. “The last time I was a lot younger, my body looked good and it knew the moves and responses. Time went by; now I’m no longer so young. My body shows signs of aging that I find both embarrassing and unpleasant. I’m not sure if I still know how to react intimately. Until recently, I didn’t remember what it felt to desire.

  “Michael, I so love you. But I’m afraid of being hurt, of hurting you. And I’m afraid of intimacy with you.” For a brief moment she closed her eyes against the pain in her chest that felt as if her heart were crumbling. When she opened them again Michael sat forward in his chair gazing at her. Before he could say anything Nina resumed speaking.

  “I’m such a failure as a woman. I’m ashamed and guilty for having neglected my own needs, and now I’m lost. I allowed André to humiliate me and accepted living in the shadow of his lies. I have no self-re
spect left. He took away my very womanhood, and I just let it happen.” A deep sigh. “I don’t want to keep things from you. I’ve had a lifetime of secrets. Now you know.” She reached for her tumbler and drank.

  “Oh, Nina. I’m touched that you told me. How unhappy you must have been.”

  She shrugged.

  “I understand you didn’t sleep with André considering his numerous affairs. But wasn’t there anybody else? During your travels? Not even once?”

  This was the part she dreaded, the questions, because the answer humiliated her.

  She shook her head. “No, never. I wanted André. While I couldn’t stand to have him touch me, I didn’t want anyone else.”

  “But how did you handle it? Weren’t you aroused? Didn’t you want sex?”

  “I don’t know. I think I drowned it all in work—long days, seven-day weeks. Most of the time I was so tired I only wanted to sleep.”

  “Didn’t you want to get back at him?”

  “Sure I did. Many times. Maybe I never met the right man, or I didn’t give myself the time to discover anybody else. In the end I was so afraid.”

  “What were you afraid of, sweetheart?”

  She thought before answering. “The two most significant men in my life had betrayed me; first my father, then André. I became wary, afraid of men in general, of intimacy.” She remembered several occasions when a man made it clear he was interested, but she’d been standoffish, sometimes impolite to protect herself. “More than anything, I was afraid of being hurt.”

  “And?” he asked when she stopped talking.

  “And now I’ve met you, and I want to stop hiding and running away.”

  He moved next to her on the sofa and opened his arms. “I want to hold you.”

  She shook her head. Turning, she faced him, a long questioning look. “Are you sure you don’t want to drive me home?”

  “You must be kidding. Of course I don’t want to drive you home. What gave you that idea?”

  “You must realize how flawed I am.”

  “I’ve said it before, that night when we danced on your lanai; you are not flawed! Stop telling yourself that. I admire your courage to share with me the way you just did. I’m moved.”